by Fedora Amis
“Oh, yes. Doesn’t he also play Simon Legree?”
“He has to stick coffee grounds on his face to make himself ugly. Actors must make sacrifices.”
“I’m glad you have a handsome beau. Perhaps Tony and I can find an entertainment for you and your new boyfriend.” Sassy propped herself up on one elbow. “And, Jemmy, be careful. John Folck is not a man to trifle with.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wednesday Morning, November 23, 1898
The temperature stood at a mere eighteen degrees. The air took on its usual smell of sulfur from burning coal. Clean, white snow had turned grimy gray. Jemmy took comfort in one thought. In the frigid air, snow couldn’t melt to drag her skirts in icy water.
Before nine o’clock, Jemmy arrived downtown on the hunt for another of Sassy’s beaus. She considered popping into a cafe for breakfast, but yesterday’s bout of corset-busting changed her mind.
Jemmy arrived to a nearly empty Barr’s Department Store. Few shoppers ventured out so early on such a raw, cold day.
Her spirits rose when she reached the shoe department. One man stood dusting the shoes on the display table. With supreme confidence that he was Sassy’s John Folck, she marched up to him.
The bespectacled fellow tucked his feather duster under his arm and nodded his head in a little bow. “May I help you, miss?”
“This weather has revealed weakness in my shoe leather. I find myself in need of new boots.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll call upon our Miss Leimgruber to help you.” He motioned to the floor walker, who disappeared through yard goods and notions.
Jemmy should have remembered. In a well-ordered place of business, modest ladies would no more allow a strange man to fondle their feet than to fit her derriere for drawers. He gestured toward the ladies’ shoe display. “In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to examine these. We always have the latest fashions. How fortunate we are to have both Brown and International Shoe manufactories right here in St. Louis.”
Jemmy’s mind raced to find the right approach. She had no more than two or three minutes to discover whether this man could be a murderer. “I believe we have an acquaintance in common. She praised you as the finest salesman in town.”
“How pleased I am to hear such compliments. Might I inquire who gave me that glowing recommendation?”
“Miss Isabel Patterson.”
“I wish I could claim friendship of the lovely Miss Patterson, but I fear you have me confused with another.”
“You’re not John Folck, then?”
“Regretfully, no. Mr. Folck seems to be late this morning. I customarily work in the haberdashery section. Ah, here’s our Miss Leimgruber now.” He made a stiff little bow and exited in the direction of menswear.
Miss Leimgruber reminded Jemmy of a cocker spaniel, all bouncy with light-brown curls and big brown eyes yearning to please.
“How may I be of assistance, Miss . . .”
“McBustle.”
“It will be my pleasure to serve you, Miss McBustle. Have you chosen a style?”
“No, I . . .”
“With winter coming on early, I’ll wager you want a fine storm boot. We have one with an eight-inch top made of heavy calf leather. A more waterproof boot you’ll not find this side of rubber galoshes. And so easy to clean. Rub with a bit of flannel, then glaze with patent leather polish. These boots can take a lady to the trolley stop on a muddy street or the opera, with equal ease.”
The salesgirl paused for a response.
Jemmy was too busy thinking about how to find the missing Mr. Folck to reply—or to sit down, either. She pretended to examine the display-table merchandise.
“If you’d care to sit, I could take measurement of your foot.”
The salesgirl pattered on. “Of course, I may be mistaken in your needs. Perhaps you want a dressy shoe. Just in yesterday, we have a lovely low cut—so flattering to the foot and so light. We call it the Gibson Tie. It’s exactly what a Gibson girl would wear. If I may say so, your face would grace a Gibson girl poster better than many of Mr. Gibson’s models.”
Jemmy still didn’t reply, just kept inspecting shoes and holding them up to the light as if they were jewels. She tried to think of something to ask the salesgirl about John Folck. Nothing came to mind.
Meanwhile, Miss Leimgruber continued her sales pitch. “I see you like the Blucher style. The detailing on the patent leather upper is exquisite. And note the charming Cuban heel. Exciting, isn’t it? Our little war with Spain has given us new elegance in shoe fashion.”
In hopes of stalling long enough to see at least a glimpse of John Folck, Jemmy scrutinized every shoe in the entire display. The salesgirl had opened her mouth to launch into another peppy spiel when Jemmy said, “I’m terribly sorry to have wasted your time. I must fly to an important appointment, but I shall return. I am in great need of shoes that can weather the weather.”
The girl called after her, “Yes, the Storm Queen boot. So reasonable, too. Just one dollar and thirty-eight cents. I’ll remember, Miss McBustle.”
Jemmy beat a hasty exit and found herself once again at loose ends. She resigned herself to the inevitable. She’d have to go back to the office and face Hal.
A short walk took her to the Illuminator. She climbed the stairs to the third floor and took a deep breath to brace herself for what was to come—an onslaught of cross words from her bodyguard-photographer-partner Hal Dwyer.
She didn’t have long to wait. By the time she reached her ancient pine desk with its splintery legs, Hal towered over her.
“I can’t believe you were here this morning and left again without so much as a by-your-leave to me again. Where were you?”
“Getting a story.”
“When Hamm came in, I had to fake cleaning my lenses—which I always keep spotless. It was a close call, I tell you. If he catches me shirking, I do believe he’ll fire me on the spot.”
“I suppose your little ruse means you’re still an employee of the Illuminator.”
“Not much longer, unless I bring in some photogs for the art department to sketch.”
“Aren’t you glad I’ve been out working on a story? A story that will be much improved by the addition of your meager talents behind a camera.”
Hal ignored the insult. “It’s about time. I’ll get my equipment.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry. I have to make some notes first.”
“Could you at least tell me the subject so I can choose the right lenses?”
“Shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“Yes, shoes. I’m going to write a feature article on shoes for one of our advertising clients.”
He went away mumbling, “Shoes! Next she’ll want photogs of slugs on the sidewalk. I’ll need special lenses for that.”
After writing a draft for the shoe piece, Jemmy made certain John Folck would be present at her next visit to Barr’s Department Store. She telephoned and asked for him.
After several moments, a deep voice said, “Yes, this is John Folck. You wished to speak with me?”
“This is Ann O’Nimity from the St. Louis Illuminator. I’m planning a story on winter footwear. Since Barr’s is a client and nearby, your shoe department seemed the perfect place to research the topic.”
“Yes, I’m sure Mr. Barr will be very pleased.”
“I’d like to bring my photographer over straightaway, if that would be convenient.”
“Yes, I’m looking forward to meeting you.”
Jemmy hung up the receiver wondering why she hadn’t thought to telephone before her first trip. She muttered, “Wonderful invention, the telephone.”
Hal already had his coat on. “Wonderful for the people who can afford it.”
Hal annoyed Jemmy with his hints that the McBustles had money. “Yes, Bricktop has a telephone—strictly for business purposes. My sisters and I are forbidden to use it except in emergencies.”
“I’m sure you must keep the wire
s humming. With you, everything is an emergency—except helping me keep my job.”
“Grumble, grumble, grumble. If you don’t watch out, you’ll open your mouth to say sweet nothings to your lady friend and nothing will come out but ‘grumble, grumble, grumble.’ ”
“If that does happen, you won’t be around to see. I’d never let a lady friend of mine within ten feet of your snobbish nose.”
“Do pardon me for saying such a silly thing. You couldn’t grumble, grumble, grumble to a sweetheart. You don’t have one.”
“So now you’re saying I can’t get a sweetheart, right?”
“No. I said you don’t have a sweetheart at the moment. You don’t. Do you?”
“No.” Hal stuck out his chin. “But I could if I wanted one.”
“I thought every normal young man wanted a sweetheart. Is something wrong with you?”
Hal furrowed his brow. “No. I want a lady friend, but I can’t afford one—not when a sundae at Baxter’s costs a whole nickel. Who knows how long my job here will last, when you won’t even tell me where you are, much less show me anything good to photograph?”
And so the pair bickered like old marrieds until they arrived at Barr’s shoe department.
Four Barr representatives lined up in a row like soldiers ready for military inspection. Mr. Barr himself stood first in line.
He shook hands with Hal, then took Jemmy’s hand in both of his. “Miss O’Nimity. How delighted I am with this additional attention from the Illuminator. Please bear my gratitude to Mrs. Willmore. I have been considering larger advertisements for either the Post-Dispatch or the Illuminator. Your extra concern for Barr’s Department Store will make my choice much easier. I’m looking forward to your article.”
Mr. Barr motioned for the floor walker to take over. “Please excuse me. I promise you full cooperation from our staff.”
Hands clasped together, the floor walker tilted his head. “I’m remiss not to have welcomed you better on your earlier visit. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
“None needed, I’m sure.”
“How gracious of you to say so. May I introduce the members of our shoe department staff? Miss Leimgruber you’ve already met.”
“And a most excellent saleslady she is.” Brown spaniel curls bouncing, Miss Leimgruber blushed and rocked up on her toes with excitement. Jemmy thought the girl would run in circles if free to follow her instincts.
“Miss Leimgruber inspired my desire to write this article. Your saleslady is a true fountain of information. And, of course, an article on winter footwear for men and for women would be most timely while people recover from Monday’s blizzard.”
Jemmy turned to Hal. “Mr. Dwyer, would you please set up your camera near the chairs. I’d like you to take a picture while Miss Leimgruber fits me for a new pair of winter boots.”
The floor walker suggested, “Perhaps you’ll also want to interview our Mr. Folck, our head clerk in men’s shoes.”
“Yes, delighted to meet you, Mr. Folck.”
John Folck was not at all what Jemmy expected. So far as Jemmy knew, Sassy’s beaus were respectable and rich like Doctor Wangermeier, or young and rich like Peter Ploog or Cousin Duncan. Tony von Phul probably had money—and other talents as well, considering his effect on Mrs. Patterson. Quisenberry Sproat had good prospects. He was famous and seemed to know how to turn his fame into hard cash.
Homely John Folck and comely Sassy Patterson—Jemmy couldn’t envision the pair as a couple. He appeared to have nothing at all to recommend him. He sold shoes in a department store, something no rich man would do. As for looks, Folck would be more likely to turn stomachs than heads.
He was tall and thin with oversized hands and feet. His nose ended in a ruddy bulb. His hair hung in dank clumps, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he talked. His enormous shoes of polished brown leather seemed out of proportion to his lanky frame.
Something wild and compelling flitted about his eyes. Jemmy couldn’t identify it, but she’d seen the same narrow look come over a cat as it gathered its sinews to pounce upon a bird with a broken wing.
“Do you have questions for me, Miss O’Nimity, or should I call you ‘Miss McBustle’?”
“Either will do. The idea for a feature about shoes came to me while I was here earlier this morning. Otherwise, I would have called myself by my pen name.”
“Which would you want me to use?”
“Please call me Miss McBustle, or Jemima if you prefer. After all, we enjoy the same circle of friends.”
“Do we, indeed?”
“Yes, Isabel Patterson is a dear friend.”
Folck’s eyes darted left and right in his frozen face. He murmured, “You must have me confused with someone else. I am acquainted with no one by the name of Isabel Patterson.”
“My mistake. I do apologize.”
“Yes, think nothing of it.”
Jemmy went through the motions of taking notes and asking questions for the next half hour. All the while she puzzled over Folck’s words. Why would anyone lie about knowing Sassy? Meeting Miss Patterson would puff up the ordinary man and make him float off telling the world he’d met the goddess of love and beauty. Yet John Folck, a man Sassy herself counted as a beau, denied he knew her at all.
Miss Leimgruber was all agog at the opportunity to have her picture in the newspaper. She seemed quite taken with the photographer as well. Hal scouted camera placements and taught the salesgirl how to pose. “If you’ll look directly into the lens, I’ll be able to show your pretty face to best advantage.”
Jemmy snickered at such brazen flattery.
Hal stood at the back of his camera and ducked halfway under its black cloth. Hidden from all but Jemmy, he stuck out his tongue at her.
When time came to photograph the shoe fitting, he went all out to impress. He fussed for a time, then declared, “I must be close to the floor. I must put my camera on the floor. Leaving it on its tripod creates an impossible angle for a proper shot of the shoe fitting.”
Hal had drawn a crowd by the time he’d finished his preparations. He looked like the victim of medieval torture as he sprawled on his belly under a black cloth.
Jemmy could barely stifle a chuckle. A wooden box seemed a fitting head for her blockheaded partner.
With Folck, the floor walker, and more than a dozen others watching, Miss Leimgruber deftly removed Jemmy’s boot and inserted her foot into a wooden contraption to measure it.
The salesgirl made notations on a pad, then disappeared through dark-green velvet portieres into the storeroom. In short order, she returned with three pairs of boots—two that laced and one with straps and buttons.
Jemmy had to borrow thirteen cents from Hal to make up the one dollar and thirty-eight cents for the Storm Queen boots. She had spent a week’s worth of lunch and trolley money, but the venture paid off more handsomely than she could have imagined. For the rest of the day, she caught fleeting glimpses of a head ducking inside an alleyway—a dark shadow flattening against a wall when she looked back.
John Folck was following her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wednesday Morning, November 23, 1898
Suetonius Hamm’s bald-headed self met them at the door with a gruff, “My office. Now.”
Hal hustled to park his camera equipment and ran to catch up to Jemmy. Hamm stood in the open office door with the knob in his hand. Hal flattened himself to slide in without touching Hamm’s protruding belly.
Hamm shut the door and tromped round to plop behind his desk. “What’s this I hear about shoes?” His lower lip drew up in a pout that made him look even more like an English bull terrier.
Thoughts raced through Jemmy’s head. I’ve gone and done it now. Hamm is going to fire both of us.
Hamm smacked his desk with a copy of the Illuminator. “Well? Say something. McBustle, who told you to butter up one of our advertisers?”
All of a sudden, Jemmy’s wool cape seemed to grow
twenty pounds heavier. Perspiration trickled down from her hat and made her forehead itch. An overwhelming desire to cast it aside flooded her brain. She didn’t dare move, not even to take off her smothering gloves.
Some stunt reporter I am. Getting myself fired—and Hal, too—because I’m always after the big story instead of sticking to my assignments. “It was all my fault, Mr. Hamm. It was my idea. Please don’t blame Hal.”
“Blame? Who said anything about blame?”
Hal and Jemmy traded sidelong glances at this unforeseen development. Is Hamm going to fire us or not?
Jemmy ventured, “I don’t quite understand.”
“What’s there to understand? Mr. Barr called Mrs. Willmore and doubled the size of his adverts. Mrs. Willmore invited me to her office to congratulate me on my good business sense.
“I felt a ruddy fool, I can tell you. Had no idea what she was talking about.” He pointed at Jemmy with his rolled-up Illuminator. “Next time you let me know before you charge off on some wild-haired plan. If advertisers are involved, you let me know.”
“Does that mean you’re happy because we did something right?”
Hamm snorted. “As Virgil says, ‘Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas. Happy the man who could search out the causes of things.’ ”
“So Mrs. Willmore liked the idea of my feature story on winter shoes?”
Jemmy felt Hal’s elbow nudge her arm. “And the picture? Does she approve of using a photograph, too—even with the added expense?”
“Mr. Barr said photography clinched the deal.”
Reluctance written all over his face, Hamm opened his cigar humidor—the humidor reserved for handing out honors to reporters who landed big stories. He delivered one each to Jemmy and to Hal. “Back to work with you two, and, next time, ask permission.”
Jemmy had previously earned two of Hamm’s cigars. Of course, she had to open the humidor herself and appropriate them as her just and proper reward. This was the first time Hamm actually handed her a cigar. So what if he only gave her the cigar because Jemmy made Mrs. Willmore happy?
No longer overheated, Jemmy walked calmly into the pressroom and held her trophy cigar aloft. She motioned for Hal to follow suit.